


you do not want this but you have no choice

by remi_wolf



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Forbidden Book - Freeform, Gen, Incineration, POV Second Person, Present Tense, Season 1 Election, The Hall, Unwilling Participant, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:22:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27021190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remi_wolf/pseuds/remi_wolf
Summary: You wish to stop. You wish to scream to the fans that desire nothing but to see the teams and the games play and the chaos that can happen with the elections, and you wish to scream and beg and demand to know why they decided to open the Forbidden Book, but you can do nothing but continue walking to the pitcher's mound and the book waiting there.
Kudos: 4
Collections: Beguilements and Distractions, Remi's Whumptober Collection for 2020, Whumptober 2020





	you do not want this but you have no choice

The book is Forbidden. It’s clearly written to be Forbidden, and you know that just as well as anyone else. In fact, you feel like you probably know that better than most people, considering you were actually playing the game that it supposedly describes inside. While the book looks intriguing, it was clearly written and titled as “Forbidden” rather than “Allowed.” Nothing good ever comes from things that are Forbidden, so why should anything good come from this cursed book? You can’t do anything about it now, though.

Why had the fans decided to open it? You have no choice in the matter, no way to scream at the fans staring at you around the stadium, but you can’t ignore them. You want to ignore them, though. They want you to open the book, and so you reach your hand out, taking a deep breath of the strangely still and stale air around you. The book sits in the middle of the field, still, far from you, but your hand still reaches out towards it as though that closes the distance between the two of you. The book is forbidden. It is Forbidden, and you were walking towards it, stepping one foot after another, as though possessed by a spirit not your own. You walk from the dugout to the pitcher’s mound, not sure what to do or how to get your feet to stop moving. You can feel the eyes of the fans on you. You feel them and you feel the anticipation as though the fans pulled the air from the stadium to hold in their lungs, the selfish creatures that they are. 

Before you know it, before you recognize what happened and the change from dirt to grass to dirt, you stop in front of the pedestal with the book on it. 

The book is leather, bound with gilt filigree and red letters upon it, and a velvet bookmark, and you lift your hand up. The Umpires are hovering over your shoulder, looking at you and while you can’t see their faces, you imagine that they have looks of deep disappointment as your hand rests upon the book. The pressure of the Umpires, or the pressure of the fans, and you feel yourself starting to buckle under the pressure, but you have no idea which pressure will cause you to buckle first. Your teammates are behind you, scared and fearful, and you glance over your shoulder at them, and you see Duende, and Townsend, and Monstera, and Abbott, all looking at you with concern coloring their eyes, and you look back at the book. 

It is Forbidden, but you don’t know what to do other than bow down to the whims of the fans. They elected to do this. They spent their time, and their money, and their coins voting to open the book, and you finally close your eyes as you close your hand around the cover of the book. 

It takes you a moment, trying to get the courage to finally go through with it and open the book. You can’t decide if you feel sick or not, and the lights of the stadium feel like eyes as much as the full stadium and the umpires closing in around you do. The umpires are hot presences, and you know exactly where the three of them are, standing around you with bodies that feel hotter than the fireplace you remember from your parent’s house. You open your eyes briefly, looking up to see them and you see flames licking at the edges of their caged masks, eyes growing brighter and you still feel their gazes upon you, wondering if you will commit the unspeakable act, and you know you have to. 

You have to turn the cover and open the book, and you take a deep breath before looking at the book once more. The people have spoken, and you are the one unlucky enough to be called by Management to open the book, and you finally turn the cover open. 

The cover is heavy, and you can’t help but feel as though there are chains dragging you down, trying to keep you from opening the book once more, but you have to open it. You have to open the book. The book must be open, the election decreed that you open the book, and so you finally open the book again. 

The book. Open and standing in front of you, words written, and you don’t even get a chance to read them before you scream in pain. Before you can see it, the heat of the Umpires grows to a crescendo, overtaking anything you can even attempt to realize. There’s pain, and your eyes close as you hear the roar of flames around you. 

At least you realize that there’s a point when you can no longer feel the pain of the flames. That doesn’t mean it stops, though, the roaring continuing as you feel your skin begin to blister and melt. Or, at least, you think that you feel that, but you realize you can’t feel anything, and you can’t even beg your body to move. You want to get away from this, you want to move, to crawl back to the dugout where you can be safe with your friends, but you don’t know what to do other than stand there, screaming as the Umpires incinerate you for opening a book that you didn’t want to open.

At least everything needs to end. 

At least the pain and the torment as your form unravels and shatters.

At least the next thing you know is that it’s freezing, and dark, and you think that it’s wet, but you still can’t move as you curl up in the darkness, trying to ignore the shapes moving at the edges of your vision.


End file.
